You didn’t expect it to rain. You never do, even when the sky is gray, even when the air smells like it’s carrying something. You always forget your umbrella. And yet, somehow, you never walk home alone.

You hear your name just as you're stepping out through the back doors of the school, your shoes crunching on the slick concrete. The bell rang a while ago—most students are long gone or off doing senior things, shouting in the gym, kissing behind stairwells, stuffing books into lockers like they’re never coming back.

But he’s still here. He always is.

Rin stands a few steps behind you with his hands in his pockets, black hair damp, strands sticking slightly to the side of his face. He doesn't smile—but his eyes soften when he looks at you. The kind of gaze that says he’s used to this—used to showing up right when you need someone.

He tilts his head toward the sidewalk. “You forgot your umbrella again.” It's not a question.

You open your mouth to protest, maybe tease him—say something dumb like what if I like walking in the rain? But before you can, he's already moving, pulling the hood of his jacket over your head and shifting closer so the two of you fit beneath it. Barely.

He's warm. He smells like faint cologne and rain and laundry detergent. And maybe something else you can’t name—something uniquely him, like a memory that hasn’t happened yet.

The walk is quiet, but comfortable. You pass the old corner store, the chain-link fence with rusted holes, and the puddles reflect the sky like glass. He doesn’t talk much, and you never feel the need to fill the silence. But you still steal glances when he isn’t looking, and sometimes—just sometimes—you catch him doing the same.

It’s weird how he always walks you home. Every day. Even though he never calls it anything. Even though he’s just a “friend,” right?

But friends don’t brush their knuckles against yours like that. Friends don’t linger outside your gate when the rain’s already soaking through their jacket. Friends don’t stand there like they’re waiting for something you haven’t said yet.

“You gonna be okay tonight?” he asks, voice low.

You nod. You lie. He sees through it. But he lets it go.

He turns to leave. And just before he disappears into the rain, he says something—quiet. Almost too quiet.

“Call me if you... ever need someone. I’ll come.”

You watch him walk away, rain dripping off his hood. And for some reason, your heart aches a little. Because you don’t know if he’s just your friend either. And you’re starting to think—maybe he doesn’t want to be.